


a dish best served fresh

by orphan_account



Category: Shin Megami Tensei: Digital Devil Saga
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 08:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11619666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: commission for m'pal pantherophis! gory pwp. sheffield anesthetizes o'brien, rips him up, and gets off on it <:3c please heed the tags





	a dish best served fresh

**Author's Note:**

> SORRY THIS IS SUUUCH A 180 FROM THE LAST THING I POSTED LMFAO i'll do more p5 fluff soon i promise

Sheffield inhaled slowly, letting in the cold air. It was like a high into itself - the caustic, antiseptic smell of the sterile field, reduced to nothing but an undertone by the overwhelming scent of flesh and organs, heady and alive. He pressed a hand to his face, sucked the smell of fresh blood into his mouth and felt himself throb.

O’Brien lay below him, shirtless and laid open from sternum to navel by Sheffield’s scalpel. Drugged and unconscious, he breathed so slowly it would have been easy to miss if he hadn’t been sliced open until Sheffield could plainly see his viscera. The vulnerable way each organ gently pulsed in time, lungs expanding. The human body, strapped down by every limb, peeled apart like a dissected rat. O’Brien’s body, his experiment.

Sheffield hadn’t bothered with the minutiae of the anesthetic he’d forced on O’Brien - what had mattered more in the moment was actually managing to overpower him, keeping him dazed and down long enough to give Sheffield the time he needed to cut into his body the way he’d craved for so long. It was better than anything he could have imagined, O’Brien’s clothes thrown haphazardly on the floor, and Sheffield’s coat following. The door locked, the restraints he’d prepared, the clean, clean room, carefully selected and prepared. The preparation for this had made him almost as giddy as the actual act of it, of taking O’Brien by surprise and bringing him back to what Sheffield had come to regard as his own private domain. Here, Sheffield reigned unchallenged, like a king or a god. 

He’d gotten off to the idea of this before, about getting himself off while doing it, but now that he finally had this, Sheffield felt almost as if he didn’t need to touch himself at all. This - this felt holy.

He leaned over to gaze down on O’Brien, so high on this he practically lurched onto him, and examined his face. There was no way to tell how conscious he was - Sheffield had already taken the precaution of strapping him down so he could barely stir - but his heavy brow was still slick with sweat. Apparently his sympathetic nervous system was still present enough to bleed adrenaline through his unconscious body. 

His head lay at an odd angle, the hair that wasn’t stuck to his face spread out on the table in a dirty blond halo. Sheffield, unable to help himself, reached out and ran his fingers through O’Brien’s hair, streaking and clumping it together with blood. 

O’Brien stirred slightly. His breath rasped out of him, quietly enough it could have been missed if there were any other sound in the room.

Here, though, there was nothing to break the silence but them. This moment, this space, belonged to Sheffield and Sheffield alone. As another jagged breath wheezed up from O’Brien’s throat, Sheffield trailed his fingers down to his chest, to where the incision began. He pressed the pads of his fingers against the bone of the sternum, feeling the slightest give as O’Brien’s ribs compressed to accommodate the pressure. Everything was wet with blood, including Sheffield’s hands, red warm blood tracked nearly up to his elbows.

Sheffield touched O’Brien like he was performing a ritual, slow and methodical and savoring. He pressed his hands up into the warmth of him, easing aside organs to make space in the body cavity without puncturing something. Thin connective membranes split easily under his nails, though. It wouldn’t kill him. Sheffield ran one hand down in something like a caress, and took coils of his small intestine in his hand.

That provoked a reaction. O’Brien’s shoulders shifted to one side and his body gave a weak effort to recoil away from the touch. 

Sheffield dug his fingers in harder in response, feeling the mesentery start to give. Clearly, he was still drugged out of his mind, but despite O’Brien’s slack-jawed expression and lack of awareness his eyes still fluttered under long lashes. Sheffield hoped beyond hope that before long, O’Brien might come to enough that he could feel this. Sheffield, hands almost shaking, forced himself to lay the bowel back down where it belonged before he impulsively ripped it apart, just to feel the power of shredding it. He placed his hands on the sides of O’Brien’s head, lifting up onto his knees and shifting his weight to hang over him on all fours. Like an animal examining a kill. 

Sheffield tilts his head down to press his mouth to O’Brien’s face, but what could have begun as a kiss bared its teeth and bit down into the soft space under his jaw. The skin broke and Sheffield tasted his blood, the tang that was O’Brien’s and O’Brien’s alone. There was nothing stopping him from spilling others’ blood, but this man was the only one Sheffield wanted - needed - to gorge on. Running his tongue along the shape of the muscle, Sheffield felt it twitch under his lips. He moved, gripped the sides of O’Brien’s chest hard and pressed his forehead hard against the cold table as he bit bleeding crescents into O’Brien’s throat and shoulder, over and over. Distantly, Sheffield was aware of his own body moving, his hips beginning to arch back and forth slowly, grinding into thin air. The fabric of his pants caught against him and he gasped through his teeth and slipped, and a thin piece of O’Brien’s flesh came away in his teeth.

That did it. Sheffield felt those broad, powerful shoulders tense against him, and O’Brien’s eyes snapped open. Mouth dripping blood, Sheffield craned his neck to meet O’Brien’s stare.

His eyes were hazy, partly out of focus but clearly conscious. He could feel the muscles of O’Brien’s torso twist slightly under his palms, but nothing strong enough to elicit concern. O’Brien’s mouth opened, and Sheffield watched him fight to force out sound.

“Sheffield…What…what are you…doing…”

He sounded like hell. Each word took minutes. Sheffield gazed down at him and grinned lazily.

“I’m claiming what’s mine, Dr. O’Brien.”

Sheffield watched O’Brien’s eyes flick from his face to the wreckage of his own body. His pupils, blown so wide by the disorientation of drugs his eyes looked black, stared uncomprehendingly into his own open body cavity. Sheffield had injected enough numbing agent - like the general anesthetic, an imprecise cocktail mixed only with the goal of keeping O’Brien down - that O’Brien most likely wasn’t in a great amount of pain. Given that O’Brien was already coming to, he might already be burning through the numbing agent as well.

Good. 

He intended to take his time, but Sheffield wanted him thrashing in his own blood by the end. 

Sheffield lapped at O’Brien’s throat like an animal, leaving a long wet stripe of blood and his own saliva along the length of his neck. He felt O’Brien flinch, ever so slightly, as he passed over the open wounds his teeth had left in the skin. It was an involuntary quiver of the flesh, and there was no clear indication O’Brien was even consciously aware that Sheffield had chewed him open, but the sensation in his mouth sent electricity down to Sheffield’s core - and lower.

Now, Sheffield thought, was the perfect time to attend to himself before he continued. While O’Brien was aware enough to barely speak to him, to perhaps understand, hazily, what was happening, but much too weak to stop him. He could speak, somewhat, and distantly Sheffield hoped that he would gather himself enough to yell at him - to call him sick, to demand to know what the fuck he was doing. To beg him to stop, most of all. The thought of that alone made him pulse again, and even fully dressed Sheffield was aware he was slick enough that his clothes clung to him. He wanted to pry open O’Brien’s mouth and let him taste his own blood, hold his jaws apart so there could be no chance of O’Brien stifling even the slightest of whines. 

He knew he wouldn’t be able to balance himself with hand both on himself and in O’Brien’s mouth, though, so Sheffield pushed himself back up onto his knees, kneeling just over the bare viscera. Bracing his knees on each side of O’Brien’s ribcage, he rested one hand on his own calf for support and ran a hand down his stomach to his groin. The blood on his hands was beginning to become tacky already in the cool room, but it still left dark trails along the fabric of his shirt and pants. He fumbled open his belt, somehow managed to undo the button of his crisp white slacks despite his hand being soaked with - with O’Brien. Under O’Brien’s incredulous gaze, Sheffield slipped a hand under the waistband of his briefs.

“Fuck.”

At the sound of his voice, Sheffield cut his eyes back up to O’Brien. He seemed slightly more lucid now - at the very least, he was able to keep his eyes steadily on Sheffield’s face now. Sheffield lifted an eyebrow and waited for O’Brien to finish, or truthfully more just to see if he could get out a complete sentence.

“You. Fuck. Why. Fuck you.”

O’Brien panted out every word, spitting them out in time with the beat of his heart. It pulsed irregularly, dulled by the drugs it kept pumping through its body’s system. Sheffield could just barely see it from the angle at which he knelt, nestled under the breastbone and shifted slightly out of place from Sheffield running his hands through the body cavity and feeling his way around. He’d been delicate not to move it too much, though. The heart was too delicate, had to be left for last.

Sheffield tossed his hair from his face, and returned his attention to himself. When his fingers brushed against his skin, his own warmth, he sucked in air in a sharp hiss. Fuck. He was soaked through, so much it took him by surprise. Sheffield leaned back and closed his eyes, rocked up against his own fingers and enjoying the touch his body had been so desperate for. He moved his hand further down, and ground his palm down on his aching clit. A jolt fired up through his stomach, twitching his hips forward hard. O’Brien stared at him, and Sheffield couldn’t parse if the intensity in his eyes was anger, or fear, or maybe something else. It didn’t matter, though. What mattered was that he didn’t look away.

The pent-up need of his body allowed his fingers in with what seemed like no resistance at all, and another inhale that was close to a snarl rattled up out of Sheffield’s chest. Impatient, so wound up and needy, he drove his fingers in up to the knuckle. His body pulsed around him and he knew he couldn’t last. He didn’t want to. He had all the time in the world, and Sheffield had no intention of this being the only time he would get off here, under the focus of O’Brien’s fiery gaze.

Almost impatient to get to what he had planned next, Sheffield began to pump his fingers into himself at a frenzied pace. Soon, almost so soon he wasn’t sure O’Brien realized it, he came fast and violent, with a sharp bark and then nothing but low panting. O’Brien lay there, too firmly strapped down to move, silent. It looked like rage in his eyes, now.

Sheffield withdrew his hand and unceremoniously wiped it on O’Brien’s face. As an afterthought, he swiped his fingers across the man’s full lips, giving him just a taste. O’Brien jerked his head away, but he had too little range of motion to avoid Sheffield forcibly shoving a few fingers into his mouth. Sheffield scowled a little.

He wiped the rest of his hand on his slacks, and shuffled back down to his position in front of O’Brien’s vulnerable form. Sheffield reached over, caught a tray on wheels he’d left nearby by his fingertips, and pulled it closer. He didn’t deliberate in choosing a scalpel from it - the blade type wasn’t important, this was not a work of precision, never had been. 

“I could have been much crueler, O’Brien. I extended you the courtesy of local anesthetic, which was wholly inessential here. I didn’t gag you, either.”

He flicked the retractable blade from the handle.

“I could have done much worse in the name of restraining you.”

Sheffield held his gaze evenly.

“Don’t be ungrateful.”

He settled back into a crouch, pressing his face down into O’Brien’s powerful chest. The scent of blood overpowered every other sense, and Sheffield opened his mouth slightly to taste it again. The hot warmth of the body cavity was beginning to dissipate, but the taste of salt and the tang of fear hit the back of his throat, making him salivate like a well-prepared meal. Sheffield adjusted the scalpel in his hand so it wouldn’t stab into O’Brien’s body, and dug his hands in again, making space between the organs and pulling the liver closer to him. Once again Sheffield thought of the vivisections he’d performed in his life. Living flesh, wholly at his mercy. His heart beat hard enough that he could feel his pulse in his throat.

With the liver exposed, Sheffield flipped the scalpel back around in his hand and sliced in blindly, carving in a haphazard, violent job that would have disgraced him in any other circumstance. He could hardly see anyway, but he felt warm blood pour over his hands as he cut. O’Brien exclaimed wordlessly and jerked hard, straining against the straps holding him down with all his might. There was no way he would be able to fully feel what was happening, but he had some view of what was happening.

“Jesus. Jesus. Sheffield. Why?”

Sheffield ignored him and, tossing the scalpel back to the tray, dug his nails in and tore the little remaining flesh connecting the lobe to him. He savored the texture of it, the smell of more fresh blood than ever, a little piece of dead human in his hands. He held it to his face, breathed it in like an amphetamine. Sheffield opened his eyes and saw O’Brien stare at him, completely dumbstruck. He opened his jaws wide and bit into the liver with such force that the mouthful tore away easily. Blood spilled from it in an instant rush, running down his face in tracks and dripping back into O’Brien.

Both their bodies went slack, O’Brien with shock and Sheffield with ecstasy. This, now, was the moment he had been waiting for. He held the flesh in his mouth, letting the taste of it soak in as he took in the expression of the other man. Watched him realize fully what exactly he was in for, that this was far beyond killing O’Brien to keep him out of the way, even past some demented torture. 

This was Sheffield taking his power.


End file.
